“Come on,” said Harry, pulling Dick along with him.  “You mustn’t start quarreling now — it’s time for all of us to stand together, Dick.  I don’t care what he says, anyhow.”

He managed to get his fiery chum outside, and they hurried along, at the scout pace, running and walking alternately, toward the West Kensington station of the Underground Railway.  They were in their khaki scout uniforms, and several people turned to smile admiringly at them.  The newspapers had already announced that the Boy Scouts had turned out unanimously to do whatever service they could, and it was a time when women —­ and it was mostly women who were in the streets —­ were disposed to display their admiration of those who were working for the country very freely.

They had little to say to one another as they hurried along; their pace was such as to make it wise for them to save their breath.  But when they reached the station they found they had some minutes to wait for a train, and they sat down on the platform to get their breath.  They had already had one proof of the difference made by a state of war.

Harry stopped at the ticket window.

“Two-third class —­ for Ealing,” he said, putting down the money.  But the agent only smiled, having seen their uniforms.

“On the public service ?” he questioned.

“Yes,” said Harry, rather proudly.

“Then you don’t need tickets,” said the agent.  “Got my orders this morning.  No one in uniform has to pay.  Go right through, and ride first-class, if you like.  You’ll find plenty of officers riding that way.”

“That’s fine!” said Dick.  “It makes it seem as if we were really of some use, doesn’t it, Harry?”

“Yes,” answered Harry.  “But, Dick, I’ve been thinking of what you said to Graves.  What did you mean when you told him you knew more about me than you did about him?  Hasn’t he lived here a long time?”

“No, and there’s a little mystery about him.  Don’t you know it?”

“Never heard of such a thing, Dick.  You see, I haven’t been here so very long and he was in the patrol when I joined.”,

“Oh, yes, so he was!  Well, I’ll tell you, then.  You know he’s studying to be an engineer, at the Polytechnic.  And he lives at a boarding house, all by himself.  Not a regular boarding house, exactly.  He boards with Mrs. Johnson, you know.  Her husband died a year or two ago, and didn’t leave her very much money.  He hasn’t any father or mother, but he always seems to have plenty of money.  And he can play all sorts of games, but he won’t do them up right.  He says he doesn’t care anything about cricket!”

“How old is he?”

“Sixteen, but he’s awfully big and strong.”

“He certainly is.  He looks older than that, to me.  Have you ever noticed anything funny about the way he talks?”

“No.  Why?  Have you?”

“I’m not sure.  But sometimes it seems to me he talks more like the people do in a book than you and I do.  I wonder why he doesn’t like me?” pondered Harry.